The Comet's Curse

by Dom Testa

  It was becoming obvious that some of the thousand or so young people gathered in California were almost shoo-ins to be picked, based on their academic and physical skills. Bon Hartsfield was one of those that most people assumed would be making the final cut, and the girl, who sat in front of him in their Friday afternoon physics class, had latched on to him lately. Bon wasn’t sure if she was attracted to him romantically or just hoped that she might gain an edge through association. Either way, she had engaged him in conversation after each of their classes together.

  “Swedish,” he said to her. “I grew up in the farmlands of Skane in Sweden.”

  “But someone told me that you came here from Minnesota or something,” she said. “I’m confused.”

  Bon sighed. He wasn’t very keen on discussing his personal life, especially when he wasn’t sure of this girl’s motives. “I lived with some of my mother’s family in Wisconsin for the last two years,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t really feel like talking about that.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to pry into your business.”

  “All right.” Bon was ready to end the conversation and more than eager to be rid of her company. “I’ll see you later, okay?” Without looking at her he broke away and headed towards the dormitories.

  But now his mind was reliving the last few years like a documentary. His brief altercation with his schoolteachers in his hometown of Hassleholm, followed by clashes with his strict disciplinarian father. On several occasions his mother would step in, arguing with her husband that Bon was in trouble in school because he was bored with the subjects. And he was. From the moment he entered grade school he was years ahead of his classmates. He was reading by the time he was four, writing his own stories by age eight and constantly frustrated by the slow pace at which his public education was moving. He decided his school lessons were hopeless and began his own pace of study. When he neglected his classroom assignments his grades plummeted.

  His teachers assumed that he was simply belligerent and a troublemaker and asked his parents for help. His father, a farmer who didn’t stand for any backtalk, refused to discuss the reasons for Bon’s attitude problems. His answer was simple: get into trouble at school, spend more time working up a sweat in the fields. It wasn’t long before Bon resented his father and grew increasingly distant from him.

  His mother, on the other hand, could see exactly what was going on. She would spend many evenings after dinner talking quietly with her oldest son about his frustrations. Bon felt that she was the only person in the world he could talk to, the only person who could understand him. More than once he confided in her that his primary wish was to get away, to escape the farm and his father’s iron hand.

  One day when he was eleven he came home from school to find his father waiting at the door. Bon’s first thought was that he had forgotton one of his chores. When he saw the letter from his school clutched in his father’s hand, however, his heart sank. Two of Bon’s teachers had agreed that the boy had become too much of a distraction for the other students, and were proposing a transfer to a private school where he might receive more personalized instruction. It was the last straw for Bon’s father.

  But rather than punish him, Bon was shocked to discover a softness in his father’s eyes. To this day Bon could recall the long discussion with his parents that lasted beyond dinner and into the late evening hours. By the time they had gone to bed, Bon’s future was decided. He would leave within the month to stay with his aunt and uncle who lived in America, and he would attend an accelerated school. All agreed that the change in atmosphere might help the headstrong Swede find his way.

  Now, as he climbed the stairs to his dorm room at the Galahad training center, Bon wondered about his family. On his last trip home he discovered that both of his parents were suffering from the symptoms of Bhaktul, his mother feeling the effects most of all. Yet neither would discuss it in depth. Instead, they both wanted to talk of his future, his potential of joining the Galahad project and his attitude. Most surprising of all, Bon felt a reconnection to his father. No longer the gruff, no-nonsense farm owner, he had realized his own mortality and had softened because of it. Embracing his teenage son for the last time, he had actually cried, something that Bon had never seen before. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into Bon’s ear. “Please forgive me, son.” Bon clutched his father tightly and wept.

  Even now, almost a year later, he felt the power of that moment. Slamming the door to his room, he threw himself onto his bed and draped one arm over his face. No dinner tonight, he decided. No more questions about his past, either.

  On his nightstand a picture of his parents, taken in happier times, sat submerged in shadow.

  11

  So by now you might be wondering how I work. I obviously talk to the crew, I run the life-support systems on the ship, I answer questions, and I have a lovely singing voice. If you’re a girl, and I’m a flesh-and-blood boy, you’re all over me.

  But I’m not psychic, and I don’t “see” everything that goes on around the ship. I’m busy, man. Give me a specific task and I’ll knock it out. Ask me how many minutes until we reach Eos and I’ll nail it. Ask me what color underwear you have on today and I’ll tell you how many minutes until we reach Eos. Please.

  So don’t even start with this “Did Peter really see someone?” stuff with me. You and I have the same information, so we’ll both have to puzzle it out. The only difference is that I’m incredibly smart. Not that you aren’t, but when you can recite the table of elements in twenty-six languages get back to me.

  I want to know what’s going on just as much as you do. I can do the mental part, but the legwork is a little tough. I got no legs, man.

  Gap Lee was kneeling in the hallway in the Storage Section of Galahad. He hadn’t noticed the object at first; in fact, he had already talked with a handful of other kids in and around the area before walking back to the site where Peter Meyer had claimed to have seen the bearded man. No one else had seen anything unusual, although most admitted they had been occupied with watching the launch when they heard the screams. Gap found one of the first people who had come upon Peter, a shy girl from Spain. She had been frightened at first by his outburst, but had then quickly called for help. All she knew was that Peter had been frantic, yelling something about “did you see him?” and really making no sense at all. “Spooky” is how she described it.

  Gap then made his way to the vast storage area of the vessel, a maze of halls and compartments. It was here that the biggest mystery of Galahad lay. While every other section of the vessel was open to everyone, a few of the sealed storage compartments were labeled “off limits” to the entire crew, including Triana Martell and the Council. Only Roc knew of the contents, or what was planned for them. A few days before launch, Gap had jokingly sparred with the computer, trying to playfully draw some information from it. Roc played along … but without telling Gap anything.

  “I don’t know, Gap, what do you think is in there?” Roc had said. “Or, here’s another way to think about it: what do you think you’ll really need when you get there?”

  Gap had chewed on this. “Need … need …” he muttered. “A big dune buggy with, like, ten-wheel drive.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s good, Gap. How about a magic carpet so that you can just fly around the planet? I think I’m finished talking with you for today. My chips are worn out.”

  Later, Gap had told Triana, “It’s probably just a big survival pack, and they don’t want us screwing it up before we get there. A big box of blankets, gas masks and matches, I’ll bet.” He’d tried to shrug it off, but inside he was deeply curious, as were the other 250 pilgrims. Five years was an awfully long time to play “what’s in the box?”

  Gap had strolled up and down the corridors for a few minutes, peeking into the storage rooms that were unlocked, and shining a flashlight inside some of the utility crawl spaces. Nothing. And no sign that anything wa
s wrong.

  A large window had interrupted the monotony of the hallway, the same window Peter Meyer had sought for a glimpse of Earth. Gap leaned an arm against it, and on this rested his forehead. He stared at the night side view of the planet as it receded, large clusters of lights twinkling silent good-byes. Somewhere down there, he was sure, his mother was contributing to the message. Several quick blinks of his eyes beat back the tears.

  He pushed back from the window, took one last look, then turned towards the lift. He’d only taken a few steps when a gleam caught his attention. Something shiny was lying on the floor near the wall. He picked it up, rubbed his fingers over it, then turned it over to see the other side. Standing up, he flipped it once in the air, caught it with one hand and slipped it into his pocket. Tree would want to see this. Whether it meant anything important or not, it was the only clue he had that someone had been walking around down here, even if it was only Peter.

  With one final glance in both directions, he left Galahad’s mysterious Storage Section, whistling softly to himself.

  At the same time Gap was making his discovery, Roc was running through the thousands of duties he performed every second. Adjusting the heat in the Exercise Section on the lower level, where ten boys had just gathered for an Airboarding session. Updating the health records for the kids who had been slightly injured during the run-in with Peter. Exchanging data with the mission planners on Earth. Running a test on a water dispenser that had been reported broken in the housing levels. And rechecking the energy levels on the ship, the same life-energy readings that had puzzled Roc right after launch. They were still not balanced, and he was sure it had nothing to do with the stress, although that was how he had explained it to Tree earlier.

  Something just wasn’t right. As part of his last transmission to Earth, he had requested a new calculation based on the number of people aboard Galahad and their individual energy readings. Whatever was causing the unusual numbers was probably something trivial, perhaps some minor human error made in the hectic rush to get Galahad on its way. But Roc wanted to be sure. In fact, as the heart and brain of the mission, he had to be sure.

  Roc noticed the gentle breathing of Triana as she slept. Although no one would believe it was possible for a machine to have emotions, he adored her. In the year they had trained together he had developed a strong sense of respect for the young lady from Colorado. He knew that she was carrying an extremely heavy burden of responsibility on her shoulders, something no sixteen-year-old should ever have to know. Could he really “feel” sorry for her? Could he actually “like” someone? Was it possible that Roy Orzini could really have left something of himself inside the mass of wires and circuits and connections called Roc?

  His computer brain raced through thousands and thousands of duties in the blink of an eye, with a few all-too-human feelings hiding within it.

  12

  Asixteen-year-old? In charge of a hospital? You’re absolutely out of your mind!” The noted surgeon bellowed over the video connection to Dr. Wallace Zimmer during an unusually cool summer day. The launch date for Galahad had been set, and now, with less than a year and a half to go, Dr. Zimmer was trying his best to cope with a new problem. Finding the right young people to place aboard the spacecraft was not the biggest challenge. No, he was having a more difficult time with the adults who were being called upon to help prepare each section of the ship. Very few seemed to give the kids much chance in learning all that needed to be learned before they were expelled from Earth. Dr. Zimmer could not disagree more.

  “Listen,” he explained to the doctor, “if we had another five or ten years to educate and train these young people, don’t you think that’s what we’d be doing? But we don’t have five years; we don’t even have two years. We launch in sixteen months.”

  The surgeon, sitting in his office in Boston, snorted. “Well then why bother with any training at all? I can give just enough advice and training to someone to get them into trouble. They’re probably better off not knowing anything and just toughing it out. You know, survival of the fittest, all that garbage.”

  Dr. Zimmer had heard this reasoning before. It still disgusted him that so many people were reluctant to do everything they possibly could to give these kids the best chance at survival and success. What good could it do to bury your knowledge with you?

  “Dr. Duvall, I’m asking you to devote three months to preparing these kids for their voyage. They won’t be able to come back for a refresher course. They won’t have us there to check their work. They won’t be able to treat it like a game and just ‘start over.’ They need your help. They need—we need—your valuable experience. Would you please at least think it over?”

  He thanked the stubborn doctor again, and disconnected. Dr. Armistead pulled a sheet of paper from a file and was holding it out to the mission leader. Zimmer took it and said, “What’s this?”

  “It’s a profile on the girl I mentioned to you last week. Lita Marques. Age, fourteen. Scored almost a perfect 250 on the Benz-miller Test. And, if you’ll notice the bio, daughter of a physician in Mexico. Almost too good to be true. She’s practically been raised with cotton swabs and stethoscopes. I think you should have a talk with her parents.”

  Dr. Bauer, listening to this conversation from his own desk, coughed suddenly, covering his mouth with a handkerchief. A pained look shot quickly across his face, then was gone.

  Before he looked at the file Dr. Zimmer stared at his assistant. “Are you all right? You can take off early, you know. I can—”

  “I’m fine,” Dr. Bauer said. “This isn’t even related to Bhaktul. It’s just a chest cold.”

  Zimmer was not convinced, and one quick look into the face of Angela Armistead told him that she had her doubts as well. But the project leader decided not to pursue it. Instead he glanced down at the page from Lita’s file. An ideal candidate in most respects, certainly the educational score.

  He read aloud. “Lives in Veracruz, Mexico. Father owns a store, mother a doctor. Hmm, and she’s a history buff.” He looked at Dr. Armistead. “I find that to be an interesting touch, don’t you?”

  She smiled. “Then you’ll love this irony: her particular interest in history? Famous explorers.”

  A chuckle escaped Dr. Zimmer. “Signs, Angela, signs. I don’t usually believe in them, but this …” He closed the folder and tapped it with his fingers. “Plus, I can’t wait to tell the charming Dr. Duvall that he won’t be training a sixteen-year-old to run the hospital on Galahad after all. Ms. Marques will still be fifteen when they launch.” He tossed the file across to Bauer, who coughed twice and winced.

  13

  Gap finished his work early in the afternoon. His dinner break wasn’t scheduled to begin for another hour—more than enough time for a little fun at the Airboarding track.

  After a quick stop at his room to change into shorts and grab his pads and helmet, he raced back down to the lower level of Galahad, past several of the sealed storage units and into the room set aside for Airboarding. “We’re lucky to have this,” he thought as he swept into the large padded room. Dr. Zimmer had argued for months that it was a complete waste of valuable space aboard a spacecraft that didn’t have room to spare.

  “You already have an extensive Recreation Room, an exercise facility and—for goodness sakes—a soccer field! A soccer field inside a spaceship! How in the world do you expect to justify space for an … an Airboard room, or whatever you call it?” Zimmer had asked the group of boarders.

  “It’s an Airboarding track, Dr. Z.,” Gap had said. “It doesn’t take up that much room.”

  “Are you kidding?” Zimmer had said, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “Every square inch is crucial. And for just a hobby—”

  “This isn’t just a hobby,” Gap responded. “You’re always harping on us to stay active, to not just sit around in space and grow fat and lazy. Soccer is great, we all love that. But Boarding is like … like the ultimate test o
f agility and mental sharpness. You know how important that is.”

  Zimmer had shaken his head. “Maybe I just don’t understand it completely. You have one chance to sell me on it. So explain to me exactly how it works and how it will benefit this crew.”

  Upon hearing this, Gap had grinned, because he knew that Dr. Zimmer didn’t have a chance. Gap Lee had been selected for the Galahad mission not only because of his athletic prowess, but also his sharp intellect. And he was skilled in debating the merits of things he loved. Including Airboarding.

  To begin with, he explained to the scientist how Airboarding had evolved from the age-old sport of skateboarding. For more than a century kids around the world had thrilled to zipping along on skateboards, where the wheels actually touched the ground. But in the last five years a new version had exploded on the scene. Only this one had the rider suspended in air.

  It was an offshoot of the work done on antigravitational trains. The twenty-first century had seen the rapid development of trains that glided just above their rails, kept aloft by giant magnets that repelled each other. The trains used magnetic power not only to keep themselves suspended above the tracks, but also to zoom along at speeds of more than two hundred miles per hour. With no friction of steel on steel, the trains were both fast and efficient.

  Then it dawned on one of skateboarding’s most popular professionals: why not use that same technology for a little daredevil fun? Within a year the world’s first Airboarding tracks were opening around the world.

  The rooms were usually the size of a basketball court, with padded walls and banked corners. The key to the sport lay under the floors, out of sight. A series of grids, like the rails of a small railroad track, crisscrossed and threaded throughout the room. Each rail carried a strong magnetic charge which could be turned on and off by a computer that oversaw the competition. On the bottom of each Airboard ran a strip of equally powerful magnets, set with the same polar charge as the ones under the floor. Once situated on the board, the rider was kept hovering about four inches off the ground. As he started forward over the invisible track, he had to use feel to figure out in which direction the charge continued. If the computer programmed the charge on the rails under the floor to gradually bend to the left, the rider had to sense where the magnetic boost was fading and alter his course to the left. If he overran the charged rails, his board would topple to the ground, throwing the rider head over heels.